[Pinstripes] Wolf
Title: Wolf
Story/Character: Pinstripes / Seth, Elijah
Rating: PG-13 (violence)
word count: 1,587
Written for the brigits_flame prompt of "guns".
* * * * *
The Ancestors were weeping in the Heavens, bitter ice tears dashed down against the earth below where frozen bits clattered against brick and steel with the sound of rattled bones. Heavy gray clouds coated the sky above the white blanket of the streets, feeding on warmth and life alike to leave only a chilled, frozen wasteland behind that few ventured out into.
'Snow', he remembered. It was called 'snow' in the northeastern tongue, or sometimes 'sleet', although he wasn't entirely certain what the difference was. It was cold and miserable and it ate at his bones and into his flesh no matter how many layers he wore to try to block it out, gnawing at him like sharp rodent teeth to eat away blood and bone alike and get at the meager flames banked in his depth. He hated it - he hated the entirety of the cold, wet, barren northeastern climes - but beggars couldn't be choosers and he was, certainly, that.
Except not. Not any more.
It had been cold and wretched all the long day, just like the one before, and the one before that. He had spent it huddled as close to the heat as he dared, trying, always trying, to beat back the chill. He had expected to spend the day just as he had the ones before, silent and still, watching, listening; he might not understand all of the words but his memory was good, and his master liked him to listen. What he had not expected was the summons.
"Seth," Elijah had called, quiet, offhand, like calling a favorite hound to heel, and he had answered because he had to. Because that was his name, now, 'Seth', not 'Xian', the name Elijah had given him. 'Seth' was a name the northeasterners could pronounce, one that sat easier in their mouths, and no one there knew Xian Seon Man. He was only Seth, and he knew, because he listened, what else they tacked onto it - Elijah's lapdog, Elijah's pet foreigner, the Boss' spark, Mister Benson's toy. He didn't deny any of it - pointless, when it was true. He had been no one when Elijah had lifted him out of the gutter, homeless, friendless. A walking dead man; Xian Seon Man was dead, hundreds of miles to the west in the land of his birth, and in the bitter cold stones of the northeast city states he was no one and nothing until Elijah Benson had taken him on. He owed the man his life, and as little as he sometimes felt that he wanted it there was a debt there none the less. He would be whatever Mister Benson wanted.
It had, previously, meant being his eyes and ears during the day, his sounding board at night, and sometimes, occasionally, it meant calling a flame on command when something called for it. It had never, before that afternoon, meant being handed a gun and a holster and three men to guard his own back.
Elijah had done it as though it were the most natural thing in the world, as though it were no different than asking Seth to repeat back what he had heard, or to pour another cup of coffee, or to fetch a piece of paper. He had just handed the gun over, along with an address and name printed neatly on a sheet torn from a notebook. "Tompson's become a nuisance I can't ignore. I need you to go quiet him down." He'd waved a hand, negligent. "Take, ah... Harris. Harris, Grant and Appleton, if you need them."
It was a job for one's lieutenants, not one's lapdog. Seth had been startled enough to let the other man push the gun into his hands, startled enough to forget himself and speak - "...sir?" His accent was thick on the northeastern tongue, marking him even more foreign than the shape of his eyes, but Elijah never seemed to notice or care.
Elijah's own eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, a quick flash of white teeth between curved lips. "Whatever means you want. Make it flashy," he had said, which didn't answer any of Seth's questions at all. "We want to leave a clear message, after all."
And because Elijah Benson was a force of nature to rival the bitter teeth of the winter storm, Seth had found himself outside, in the snow, a pistol tucked against his ribs beneath the layers of his coat and three men at his back who presumed they were to shepherd the boss' pet toy around. That was what Seth read in their eyes and their bodies and in the words they laughingly assumed he didn't understand.
Take the pet for a walk, he's been inside too long. Do a job along the way.
Except that wasn't what Elijah had said. Elijah had called Seth's name, specifically. Elijah had looked him in the eye. "I need you to do this," he had said, and it had been Seth alone he had looked at.
He had thought he was resigned to the life of a lapdog. He had forgotten what it felt like to have the warm flush of a hunter coursing through his veins.
Their target was in sight, just leaving the address that Seth had been given. One of the men - Grant - spat into the cold rime of slush at their feet and cocked rifle to shoulder. "Easy shot and home for dinner," he said, grinning, and bent his head to take the sight.
"No." He didn't, he think, even recognize his own voice. It was a voice he had thought he had lost, something from deeper in his chest that had died along with his previous life. It was the voice of a man who commanded other men and it felt rusty and half forgotten in his throat, something strange and alien in the foreign tongue.
'I need you to do this,' Elijah had said, and in one move exchanged his lapdog for a hunting hound. Seth drew in air so bitter cold it burned his lungs, and reached out one gloved hand to grip the long barrel of Grant's gun. "No. I'll do it."
"'Ey," the other man said, angry, and jerked the gun away. "Leave off. Boss just wants it done, and I've got the shot."
"No." Seth repeated and this time, when he reached, the metal flushed, red and crackling in the freezing air, steam rising, and Grant yelled and fell back as his gun barrel dripped like melted sugar syrup between Seth's fingers.
It was easy, so easy, like walking, like breathing, things you never forgot. It burst up inside of him while they were still yelling, wide eyed and angry with the voices of men whose pet dog has just slipped the leash and turned to bite them. They had forgotten the wolf that lives inside every dog; he had forgotten himself, content to fawn at feet for a roof over his head and scraps to eat. But the wolf hadn't forgotten and when Elijah had looked into his eyes that afternoon, it had been the wolf he commanded.
He has been the man's lapdog. He can be the man's wolf, and gladly.
Their prey was on the run now, yelling, frantic, his own men pouring out into the streets and every hand held a gun except for Seth's. Elijah had given him one, trusted him with it, but it was, Seth reasoned, only in case he needed it. "Whatever means you want," Elijah had said. "Make it flashy."
He owes Elijah Benson his life. For that debt, he will be whatever Elijah wants him to be. He will even resurrect the dead.
When he steps forward, on the cold, icy streets of a foreign city, he is Seth no more. He is Xian Seon Man, called Chujong, God of Fire, and there was a time when men bowed to him, when they fought and scraped for his pleasure, when everywhere he looked was his. That day is gone but the fire remains, inside him, where it will never, ever end and the screams, as clothes and hair and flesh and the useless metal of guns burn and burn, are all the same. It will always be the same. He is Chujong, and the world itself will burn where he walks, burn at his command, burn for his master.
They are clustered like frightened rabbits when the last scream dies and the fire dies with it. He calls the flames back to him, aware of the cold again, and the ice, and how much the air hurts to breath. The fire, banked inside, can't keep the cold from him and he is shivering from it, frozen through and gasping with it, but none of them, not one of the three who had laughed at taking the pet toy for a walk, will look him in the eye now. They fall back when he turns to them, like men who have seen demons, or wolves, and so he swallows the ache and the shivering cold down and walks past them, letting them trail behind.
When they left, they had lead him. When they return it will be him leading them, triumphant, their enemies so much charred remains, and that, he thinks, will make Elijah pleased. He wants that, he finds. He is a wolf, but he is also Elijah's, and he will gladly be the gun itself in his master's hand.
Story/Character: Pinstripes / Seth, Elijah
Rating: PG-13 (violence)
word count: 1,587
Written for the brigits_flame prompt of "guns".
* * * * *
The Ancestors were weeping in the Heavens, bitter ice tears dashed down against the earth below where frozen bits clattered against brick and steel with the sound of rattled bones. Heavy gray clouds coated the sky above the white blanket of the streets, feeding on warmth and life alike to leave only a chilled, frozen wasteland behind that few ventured out into.
'Snow', he remembered. It was called 'snow' in the northeastern tongue, or sometimes 'sleet', although he wasn't entirely certain what the difference was. It was cold and miserable and it ate at his bones and into his flesh no matter how many layers he wore to try to block it out, gnawing at him like sharp rodent teeth to eat away blood and bone alike and get at the meager flames banked in his depth. He hated it - he hated the entirety of the cold, wet, barren northeastern climes - but beggars couldn't be choosers and he was, certainly, that.
Except not. Not any more.
It had been cold and wretched all the long day, just like the one before, and the one before that. He had spent it huddled as close to the heat as he dared, trying, always trying, to beat back the chill. He had expected to spend the day just as he had the ones before, silent and still, watching, listening; he might not understand all of the words but his memory was good, and his master liked him to listen. What he had not expected was the summons.
"Seth," Elijah had called, quiet, offhand, like calling a favorite hound to heel, and he had answered because he had to. Because that was his name, now, 'Seth', not 'Xian', the name Elijah had given him. 'Seth' was a name the northeasterners could pronounce, one that sat easier in their mouths, and no one there knew Xian Seon Man. He was only Seth, and he knew, because he listened, what else they tacked onto it - Elijah's lapdog, Elijah's pet foreigner, the Boss' spark, Mister Benson's toy. He didn't deny any of it - pointless, when it was true. He had been no one when Elijah had lifted him out of the gutter, homeless, friendless. A walking dead man; Xian Seon Man was dead, hundreds of miles to the west in the land of his birth, and in the bitter cold stones of the northeast city states he was no one and nothing until Elijah Benson had taken him on. He owed the man his life, and as little as he sometimes felt that he wanted it there was a debt there none the less. He would be whatever Mister Benson wanted.
It had, previously, meant being his eyes and ears during the day, his sounding board at night, and sometimes, occasionally, it meant calling a flame on command when something called for it. It had never, before that afternoon, meant being handed a gun and a holster and three men to guard his own back.
Elijah had done it as though it were the most natural thing in the world, as though it were no different than asking Seth to repeat back what he had heard, or to pour another cup of coffee, or to fetch a piece of paper. He had just handed the gun over, along with an address and name printed neatly on a sheet torn from a notebook. "Tompson's become a nuisance I can't ignore. I need you to go quiet him down." He'd waved a hand, negligent. "Take, ah... Harris. Harris, Grant and Appleton, if you need them."
It was a job for one's lieutenants, not one's lapdog. Seth had been startled enough to let the other man push the gun into his hands, startled enough to forget himself and speak - "...sir?" His accent was thick on the northeastern tongue, marking him even more foreign than the shape of his eyes, but Elijah never seemed to notice or care.
Elijah's own eyes crinkled at the corners when he smiled, a quick flash of white teeth between curved lips. "Whatever means you want. Make it flashy," he had said, which didn't answer any of Seth's questions at all. "We want to leave a clear message, after all."
And because Elijah Benson was a force of nature to rival the bitter teeth of the winter storm, Seth had found himself outside, in the snow, a pistol tucked against his ribs beneath the layers of his coat and three men at his back who presumed they were to shepherd the boss' pet toy around. That was what Seth read in their eyes and their bodies and in the words they laughingly assumed he didn't understand.
Take the pet for a walk, he's been inside too long. Do a job along the way.
Except that wasn't what Elijah had said. Elijah had called Seth's name, specifically. Elijah had looked him in the eye. "I need you to do this," he had said, and it had been Seth alone he had looked at.
He had thought he was resigned to the life of a lapdog. He had forgotten what it felt like to have the warm flush of a hunter coursing through his veins.
Their target was in sight, just leaving the address that Seth had been given. One of the men - Grant - spat into the cold rime of slush at their feet and cocked rifle to shoulder. "Easy shot and home for dinner," he said, grinning, and bent his head to take the sight.
"No." He didn't, he think, even recognize his own voice. It was a voice he had thought he had lost, something from deeper in his chest that had died along with his previous life. It was the voice of a man who commanded other men and it felt rusty and half forgotten in his throat, something strange and alien in the foreign tongue.
'I need you to do this,' Elijah had said, and in one move exchanged his lapdog for a hunting hound. Seth drew in air so bitter cold it burned his lungs, and reached out one gloved hand to grip the long barrel of Grant's gun. "No. I'll do it."
"'Ey," the other man said, angry, and jerked the gun away. "Leave off. Boss just wants it done, and I've got the shot."
"No." Seth repeated and this time, when he reached, the metal flushed, red and crackling in the freezing air, steam rising, and Grant yelled and fell back as his gun barrel dripped like melted sugar syrup between Seth's fingers.
It was easy, so easy, like walking, like breathing, things you never forgot. It burst up inside of him while they were still yelling, wide eyed and angry with the voices of men whose pet dog has just slipped the leash and turned to bite them. They had forgotten the wolf that lives inside every dog; he had forgotten himself, content to fawn at feet for a roof over his head and scraps to eat. But the wolf hadn't forgotten and when Elijah had looked into his eyes that afternoon, it had been the wolf he commanded.
He has been the man's lapdog. He can be the man's wolf, and gladly.
Their prey was on the run now, yelling, frantic, his own men pouring out into the streets and every hand held a gun except for Seth's. Elijah had given him one, trusted him with it, but it was, Seth reasoned, only in case he needed it. "Whatever means you want," Elijah had said. "Make it flashy."
He owes Elijah Benson his life. For that debt, he will be whatever Elijah wants him to be. He will even resurrect the dead.
When he steps forward, on the cold, icy streets of a foreign city, he is Seth no more. He is Xian Seon Man, called Chujong, God of Fire, and there was a time when men bowed to him, when they fought and scraped for his pleasure, when everywhere he looked was his. That day is gone but the fire remains, inside him, where it will never, ever end and the screams, as clothes and hair and flesh and the useless metal of guns burn and burn, are all the same. It will always be the same. He is Chujong, and the world itself will burn where he walks, burn at his command, burn for his master.
They are clustered like frightened rabbits when the last scream dies and the fire dies with it. He calls the flames back to him, aware of the cold again, and the ice, and how much the air hurts to breath. The fire, banked inside, can't keep the cold from him and he is shivering from it, frozen through and gasping with it, but none of them, not one of the three who had laughed at taking the pet toy for a walk, will look him in the eye now. They fall back when he turns to them, like men who have seen demons, or wolves, and so he swallows the ache and the shivering cold down and walks past them, letting them trail behind.
When they left, they had lead him. When they return it will be him leading them, triumphant, their enemies so much charred remains, and that, he thinks, will make Elijah pleased. He wants that, he finds. He is a wolf, but he is also Elijah's, and he will gladly be the gun itself in his master's hand.